The Ripple Effect
by Paulerro
Summary: Every action has a consequence; a pebble thrown in a lake may produce ripples that reach the other shore, one person can change the course of history. When a soldier, Edward Lake, gets caught up in the events of Mass Effect, the ripples he makes may alter things far beyond that which we know. Initially stays close to canon, but as time goes by may diverge away. Will not be AU.


**My first Mass Effect fanfic! Standard disclaimer – Mass Effect and all associated names, trademarks, etc. belong to Bioware, I don't own anything except my original characters.**

**I've been working on this for a while now, and I have a whole story planned out right up to the end of ME3. With any luck, I will actually manage to finish it – and perhaps gather a crew of followers as I do ;) So, without further ado, Paulerro Productions Proudly Presents:**

_**The Ripple Effect**_

**Prologue: Anger**

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><p><strong>Light Cruiser, SSV <strong>_**Southampton, **_**Main Deck  
><strong>**21:46 Universal Time  
><strong>**Thursday 15th**

There are so many different ways that soldiers have of preparing for combat. Some use bravado to psych themselves and each other up. They shout and roar, chest-pounding and backslapping in a barbaric but effective display of strength. Others methodically strip down and reconstruct their weapons, inspecting every piece for flaws in a meticulous and almost ritualistic process. Some listen to music — in my experience usually either martial or heavy metal. The more solemn or religious types meditate or pray, while yet others content themselves with engage in idle banter or discuss the mission for the hundredth time.

Myself, I read poetry.

People have told me in the past that it's not 'manly' or 'tough' to read poetry. To them I reply, I am six foot one barefoot; I'm an Alliance Marine, in the N program, rated N4 so far; I'm a Weapons Specialist, which means I know more about every type of mass-produced weapon, and dozens more specialty ones, than half of the rest of my unit combined. I'm tough enough. Get over it.

Right now, I'm reading — or rather, was reading — Edgar Allan Poe's _The Raven_. It's an old favourite.

A hand comes crashing down on my shoulder, interrupting my musings.

"Lake agrees with me. Don't you, Lake?"

I close the text window on my omnitool and look up at Deeko's expectant face.

"Sure, Deeko," I say, nodding emphatically. "You're absolutely right."

"Ha!" the giant of a man laughs triumphantly.

I give him a moment to savour it before I add, with perfect comedic timing,

"So, what are we talking about?"

His face falls miserably, but he brightens again at the smattering of laughter from the other Marines. A self-depreciating grin on his face, he punches me in the shoulder.

The squad's only N6, Allan Momsen, who's just months away from getting his N7 rating and is sitting opposite me, fills me in on the conversation.

"Well, we were discussing _Fleet and the Flotilla_…"

"What, _again_?" I interject, bringing more laughs.

Momsen shakes his head disparagingly at me before continuing, "Sulla here," he nods at Janet Sulla, one of only three women on the squad, and an N4 like myself, "was arguing that the romance in the vid was totally unrealistic–"

Sulla elbows him in the ribs, cutting him off. "_Not _what I said," she says waspishly. "What I said was that having a _quarian_ as the love interest was unrealistic. I mean, it's a quarian. There's no way one would dare seek a lover outside the Fleet."

"And I say she's wrong," Deeko puts in. "I say why not? They're just as likely to go for an interspecies relationship as any other race; it's just more difficult for them because of their reputations and the suits and stuff and all." He looks questioningly at me. "So, you agree or not?"

I shrug. "I guess so. I mean, I've never met a quarian myself, so I don't know how they think or anything…yeah, I can't say."

Deeko seems unsatisfied. "No, seriously though," he pushes stubbornly, "the quarians have got to have the same urges as us, right? So —"

At that point the comm comes to life with the captain of the _Southampton_'s clipped tones. "Attention all crew, we have immobilised the target and are moving in to initiate docking. Marines, stand by for boarding. Hull contact in T minus one."

Our CO and trainer, a lieutenant with the rank of N7, stands up and waves an arm above her head. "Alright, you heard the man," she barks. "Helm up and make ready, I want us hustling as soon as those doors open!"

There's a clatter as the squad, twenty marines strong, get to their feet and secure their helmets. I catch Sulla making a face at my helmet — she's always felt that the white-on-black skull emblem I've painted on my faceplate is tacky — and I, very maturely, stick out my tongue. She laughs and shakes her head at me, pulling her own helmet on a moment later and hiding her vivid purple hair beneath its dull black and blue steel.

I pull my personal weapon from my back; a much-modified Kovalyov Mk. VIII. I've tweaked and altered it a lot since I picked it up four months ago, so that it now hits almost twice as hard as a standard model while only decreasing the effective number of rounds before cool-down is required by a fifth. I call it _Alpha._

We form up into four teams of different sizes, with the first two right by the airlock doors, guns shouldered and aimed. The other two hang back and to the sides, waiting for the signal to storm the enemy ship. It's a batarian slaver vessel, a converted merchant ship capable of transporting around two hundred slaves and up to forty slavers, according to Intel. Named the _Gunnak_, it is the flagship and sole survivor of a slaver fleet that had attacked over a dozen colonies before finally being brought to battle by the Alliance and shattered. Operation BRUSHFIRE, of which I and themy squad are is a part of, is basically just clean-up after that. It's been two months since the start of the operation, and we've been hunting the _Gunnak_ specifically for a week and a half now. In a few minutes, the doors will open and this mission will finally be over – and, with any luck, I'll be an N5.

Our lieutenant, Maria Enriquez, opens a squad-wide channel.

"Alright people, stick to the plan. Squad one, we're cutting a path straight to the bridge. Squad two, down to engineering. Squad three, you're on crowd control, crew quarters. Squad four, to the cargo bay and the slave pens, clean up any stragglers and secure the captives. Hit them hard and fast, don't let them have a moment to breathe."

"Ma'am, yes ma'am!" we reply as one. An icon flashes in my helm display; the lieutenant has opened a private channel between us.

"Lake," she says quietly, "I don't want another 'collateral damage' incident, understand? Three counts is enough, you really don't need the reputation of a butcher. If there's a hostage situation and you can't see a way to deal with it without killing or maiming the hostage, wait for back-up. We clear, Lake?"

"Crystal, ma'am," I reply, and she closes the link.

Beside me, Sulla nudges my arm gently. "Lt. read you the riot act again?" she asks softly over a private channel.

I shrug slightly. "Yeah. No big deal, I'll be good."

"Sure you will," Sulla replies, and I hear the smile in her voice. "Good luck, Ed," she adds softly, with a tap on my gauntlet.

"You too, Jan," I reply, tapping hers in return. "Be safe," I add. Out of all my squad mates, Janet Sulla is the one I'm closest to. She's almost like another younger sister to me.

A loud clunk echoes through the bay, and I look up to see the door access light cycling. I breathe out slowly, and then back in slowly, and flex my fingers around the grip of my rifle. In front of me, teams One and Two have their weapons held ready, bayonets armed. Orders are that the initial charge and boarding was to be made with 'cold steel', just in case the batarians are using living shields. A marine in Team One raises her hand, a flashbang in her fist. "Mark," she says, over the comm. "Three…two…one…fire in the hole!"

At _one _the doors began to open; as soon as they are wide enough, her arm snaps down, hurling the flashbang through the gap. Everyone turns away briefly – we're all out of sight anyway, but there's no pain in caution – and the second it has gone off, teams One and Two pivot through the doorway. There are a few brief yells, a short scuffle, then the Lt.'s voice comes over the comm.

"Clear," she says, and the rest of us move in. Teams One and Two are already moving off at the double, one to the right and one to the left; I and the other two members of team Three sprint off towards the stairs, hopping over the dead bodies. I'm on point, so I take the stairs first, leaping up them two at a time, keeping my rifle aimed at the higher stairs as I go. As I round the stairwell at the top, a burst of automatic fire rips across the wall beside my head and I instinctively jerk back around the corner.

"Contact," I say sharply. "Five hostiles, behind a makeshift barricade."

"Hostages?" Momsen, the team Three lead, asks, and I shake my head. He nods and taps Sulla on the shoulder, who pulls a flashbang from her belt. She activates it, holds it for two seconds, then lobs it round the corner. It explodes in mid-air a moment later, and I immediately pivot around the corner onto one knee, rifle at my shoulder. I fire short bursts, no more than three rounds a time, aiming for the heads of the batarians I can see. Three of them are still exposed above the barricade, reeling from the effects of the flash bang and without the sense to drop down behind cover. They die quickly, blood spattering the walls, and I waste no time pushing forwards, charging the barricade. Rounds whine past me from behind – Sulla is laying down a little cover fire, forcing the two remaining batarians to keep their heads down. In five long strides I'm at the barricade, and two short bursts later the corridor is clear. Momsen passes me, stepping over the barricade like it isn't there.

"I'm point man from here," he says. "Crew quarters are in ten metres. Lake, I want you hanging back, ready to lay down suppression. Sulla, on my six."

I nod, replacing _Alpha_ on its magnetic strip and slinging out my sniper rifle, a Harpoon Mk. IX with a personalised scope and some extensive barrel modifications that allow me to use specialised anti-materiel rounds. Definitely not standard issue, definitely not cheap, but the dinner-plate-sized hole they leave makes it well worth it. I named her _Gamma_. I trail four steps behind Momsen and Sulla as they approach the doors to the crew quarters, which are closed and locked. Momsen gestures as we reach them, and he and Sulla crouch on opposite sides of the door.

Just then, the Lt.'s voice comes over the comm. "Bridge is secure. We're mopping up."

I glance at the time on my HUD — it's been barely a minute since boarding. Impressive. Unclipping a pair of flashbangs from my waist, I nod to Momsen, who begins hacking the door controls with his omnitool. I wet my lips, tensing slightly, as the door lock begins cycling; the second it starts to open I prime the flashbangs and hurl them through the gap, lowering my flash visor immediately after. The light and sound of the blast is muted effectively, and split-seconds after they go off Momsen and Sulla open up at the disoriented batarians inside. Flicking out _Gamma_'s bipod, I lay prone on the ground and add my contribution to the fighting, putting a round through a batarian's head almost immediately. The crew quarters are pretty spartan – triple bunks in two rows, one down each side of the long, featureless room. The batarians inside, about fifteen or so, have tried to use the bunks as makeshift barricades, but thin mattresses and wire frames make for poor cover. It's almost pathetically easy, I think to myself, shooting out a batarian's hip through the bunk he's crouching behind, then finishing him off with a shot through the head as he jerks in agony. It's over in less than a minute.

"Team Three, objective taken," Momsen says over the comm. "Mopping up now."

There's a momentary pause, then the Lt. replies. "Good work, team Three. Be ready to give assistance to teams Two and Four if they need it."

"Copy that," Momsen answers, and closes the link. He glances at me. "Did any of yours have shields?" he asks.

"None," I answer, shaking my head. "Nor any decent armour."

"Same here," Sulla adds, coming over to stand beside me. "No skill, either. I'm thinking these were just the crew, not the slavers proper."

Momsen nods. "I agree. Probably the slavers are on the bridge or in the cargo bay with the captives." He opens a channel with team Four's lead. "What's your situation, Jones?"

Jones' – Corporal Peter Jones, N5 – is apparently under some stress, because his reply is loud enough to cause me to wince. Gunfire echoes in the background. "Heavy resistance, but nothing we can't take care of," he snaps.

"We're done up here if you need a hand," Momsen says, his voice cool in contrast.

"Thanks, but we're fine," Jones replies. "If we need help I'll ask for it." He disconnects immediately after.

Sulla shrugs. "Looks like we're just on mop-up duty then," she says, resting her rifle on her shoulder.

"Looks like," Momsen says, and glances round. "Lake, you and Sulla head thataway," he motions to a corridor leading out of the crew quarters to the left of us. "I'll take thisaway. Standard procedure. Move out."

"Sir, yes sir," we reply in concert, and move off. I swap _Gamma _back for _Alpha _as we leave the room.

"So," Sulla says, as I check a shower room, "you think we'll find any decent loot aboard?"

I shrug one shoulder. "Anything's possible. Wouldn't get my hopes too high, these are _batarian_ slavers, after all."

Apart from a batarian hiding in a locker, who lunges at me with a wicked-looking knife when we spring him and gets a round through his neck for his trouble, we find absolutely nothing as we move through our section of the ship. A couple of messages come over the comm as we search: team Two have completed their objectives and are engaged in mop-up operations as well, and the Lt. has found a comprehensive list of the slavers' contacts. About three minutes later, though, team Four come in over the comm.

"Need assistance," Jones says, his voice strained. "We're pinned down, they're using the captives as living shields and trying to get to an escape shuttle."

"Numbers?" the Lt. asks sharply.

"I count thirty-plus, with heavy armour and shields. Five MGs, plus three snipers in the gantries."

"Everyone, converge on the cargo bay. Engage on sight." The Lt. is obviously on the move as she speaks, her words slightly choppy.

Sulla and I are already running, having started moving as soon as Jones' voice came over our comms. As we move, I bring up an updated blueprint of the batarian ship, searching for the quickest route to the cargo bay. A small flashing icon catches my attention and I grab Sulla's arm, pulling her to the side.

"Hey, what-?" she starts, but shuts up when I yank off the access grille to the maintenance shafts. According to the schematic, we could use the shafts as a back door into the cargo bay – they were a holdover from when the ship was still a legitimate merchant vessel, and were designed to allow emergency access for maintenance squads to any part of the ship. The only drawback is that quiet movement inside is impossible; our movements echo like nobody's business. I console myself with the thought that at least there will be too much gunfire for the slavers to really hear us coming.

We emerge from the maintenance shaft as quietly as we can. I realise that, inIn a stroke of luck, we've emerged behind and about fifteen feet to the right of the main slaver group, taking shelter behind a row of cages containing…about two hundred near-naked human and asari captives. Beyond them, about twenty feet away, is the slavers' escape shuttle, at present inaccessible to them due to Deeko's machine gun spraying the approach to it with tracer rounds. Their own MG's are pinning the rest of the squad down, though, and it looks like the slavers are trying to extend their slave cage wall to let them get to the shuttle. Once again I swap weapons, crouching and bringing _Gamma_ up to my shoulder. Silently, using battle-signs, I let Sulla know to take out the closest of the two batarian machine-gunners, while I deal with the other three. Looking down _Gamma_'s sights, I line up the first shot and mentally plan the progression over the others. At this range, my special rounds should go through whatever shields and armour they have in one shot. I breathe in, steady myself, then on the exhale I pull the trigger. I hold the scope steady until I see the batarian start to drop, then swing to the next and repeat. In five seconds my three are down. Beside me Sulla's assault rifle barks and her second target falls, as I switch my aim to the snipers in the gantries.

"Marines, hit 'em hard!" Sulla shouts over the comm, opening rapid fire into the batarians with short, sharp bursts that throw the startled and confused slavers into disarray. From the doorway I hear yells as the rest of the squad rush in, and within moments they're leaping over the cages into the batarians. Steel flashes and I realise they're doing this the old-fashioned way, to avoid any harm to the civilians. As the last batarian sniper falls from the gantries, I pull my knife out and charge in, veering left to cut off a slaver making a break for the shuttle. The batarians fight hard, but they are not trained for this as we are, so they fall easily. Finally, there are just four slavers left; the head of the operation, known only as Hurkah, and three of his personal bodyguards who are taking their job literally and actually shielding him with their bodies. As we close in on them, Hurkah shouts out a curse at us and raises his hand in the air.

"Take him out!" the Lt. screams, seeing what he is holding, but it's too late. Hurkah's thumb jabs down on the remote control he's holding, and with a whining groan the cargo bay doors begin to open.

Oh, fuck.

As the atmosphere inside the _Gunnak_ vents to space, everything not fixed to the ground going with it, I seize hold of a cage long enough to activate the grav-clips on my boots and force my flailing legs to the floor. Keeping the cages between me and flying objects, and carefully ignoring the suffering – no, dying – captives inside, I search the cargo bay for the door control panel. Searching for the remote is pointless, since Hurkah was one of the things to be yanked out into hard vacuum. The controls, I realise with a heart that has sunk further than I thought possible, are thirty feet away, right by the doors. Rolling my eyes, I release the grav-clips momentarily, letting myself get yanked off my feet and sucked almost to the doors before reactivating them and struggling to the control panel. I slam my fist on the 'close' panel, and the doors slowly begin to shut again.

Between the doors opening and closing, perhaps fifteen seconds have passed.

"Damn," the Lt. murmurs over the comm. Glancing round, I see her picking herself up from the floor beside the cages. I make a quick headcount, relaxing a tiny bit as I realise that none of my squadmates have been sucked out into space.

"Are they okay?" I ask, jogging back towards the cages.

"No clue," Sulla replies, jamming her knife into one and forcing it open. "They're going to need immediate medical attention. Too much air's been vented, the atmosphere's too thin to breathe."

The Lt. nods. "Ship is clear," she comms the _Southampton_. "Send in the med teams, asap. Have oxygen tubes sent over as well, we've lost most of our atmosphere."

"Copy that," the captain responds. "Medical teams moving in now."

Sulla elbows me sharply. "Give me a hand," she says, as she pulls a limp human woman out of the cage. I nod and step round her, bending over and gripping an asari under the arms to pull her out. We lay them on the floor in rows, trying our best to make them as comfortable as possible given the circumstances. I have to force myself to remain calm as I see the extent of their mistreatment: almost all are malnourished, to varying degrees, and all have been beaten, some worse than others. I carry out a young girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen, whose back is covered with red and raw stripes that are only just scabbing up. As I lay her down, she clutches at my hand, trying to say something. I can't make it out – she's too weak, and the air in the ship at the moment is as thin as at the top of a mountain – but I can lip read well enough.

Don't leave me, she mouths, and I almost tear up.

"I won't," I murmur, kneeling beside her and holding her hand. She smiles weakly and grips my hand as tight as she can, which is to say not tightly at all.

"Lake, what are you–" Sulla begins, then sees her and stops mid-sentence. Jones glances over and shakes his head. "Figures," he says, the eye-roll evident in his voice. "The guy who has no problems with killing hostages is the guy who is most affected by this."

I don't bother replying, tuning him out as the Lt. snaps at him to shut up.

Now I'm not xenophobic, by any means. In fact, some might even go so far as to say I'm positively xenophilic. But batarians…I find it very, very hard to think of them as anything but monsters. I've seen the vids of Mindoir, hell, I've helped with with the in-system mop-up operations that are _still _going on. I've taken part in shutting down no less than twelve batarian slaver outfits. I doubt there's a decent batarian out there.

I hope not. Right now, looking into the eyes of this poor young girl, I'd gladly kill every last one of the bastards.

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><p><strong>With many, many thanks to my awesome beta, Calcifer179!<strong>

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